


Deus ex Machina

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-13
Updated: 2004-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: A demon and an angel make amends with the advent of television. (London, 1936)





	Deus ex Machina

It was pouring.

The Bentley’s windscreen wipers swung back and forth, heated and regular, and Crowley drove onward through the night. The rain was not that of a spring morning, content in its platitude and charm, or even that of an energetic and vengeful August storm. Rather, it was the rain of late autumn, chilled and forgetful, at once creating a miserable curtain of soggy air that caused the cotton of Crowley’s shirt to cling against his chest and the bowed silk at his throat to sag and settle.

At any comparatively normal moment, he would have been loath to travel beyond the boundaries of his flat on such a night, often passing over the English cold for an extended holiday in Italy or Greece, though this day was different.

He was on the town for a highly specific reason.

The last few months had been held in nothing if not silence. Much like the present herald of the weather, the days were marked by a disagreeable vacancy, an exhausted longing that Crowley had ever quite allowed himself to become familiarized with.

He was unable to place such feelings, to determine with some certainty that they arose from one instant or another, though at times he would find himself walking through Soho at night, only to stop on Aziraphale’s stoop and listen to the muffled sounds of rustled pages and the sterling clink of a teaspoon against china. Watching his breath appear before him by an act of will, he stayed by the window without bothering to follow through with the effort of entering.

There was, of course, the delicate matter of the row that he and the angel had found themselves in earlier that year, though Crowley was purposefully unsure of its exact circumstances [1]. He could almost hear the lilt of Aziraphale’s voice, matter-of-factly assuring him that such regretful threads of doubt should be put behind them. One had to carry on, after all, and when one was immortal, there was really very little choice involved either way.

But Aziraphale hadn’t said those things, leaving the air without a trace of promise, and Crowley felt vaguely responsible for his own sudden move towards avoidance.

He also felt ever so slightly dispossessed when the angel apparently gave up on ringing him, though for weeks on end, Crowley had rather pointedly ignored its incessant chime and the soft knocks upon his door that gradually followed. It even occurred to him to spend another century in the safe company of his dreams, though he sensed that the bounds of humanity were beginning to stretch once more just as Europe’s own fibers frayed and unraveled.

Perhaps Aziraphale would need him again for something.

The box that now sat with complacently in the Bentley’s back seat was a peace offering of sorts, a gesture deceptively poised for purposes of reconciliation. It held a new invention, something that had been in the works for years, a combination of bravado and anguish, hope and widely questionable intentions. It was a glinting phantom sprung from the depths of Pandemonium [2], secured with the utmost secrecy and care, and actually much more of an enticement than a gift.

It was also really quite heavy.

Although this fact didn’t pose an immediate problem for Crowley, he granted himself the leisure of finding it to be a rather pointed inconvenience, especially as he presently found himself heaving it out of the Bentley and bringing it forward as he stepped onto the kerb. Rain streaked across his brow, tracing lightened paths down his cheeks and neck.

He knocked roughly against the door, once, twice, and waited for some semblance of sound from within. “Bloody angel,” he mumbled. “He _would_ choose tonight to go and lose himself.”

Rain began to settle into the dark folds of his clothes, falling across his feet. “Absolutely insufferable.” He raised a hand to the knob, feeling a wave of restlessness pass through his veins, though the action seemed to hold something of normality, a delicate spark that he had lately refused himself: arriving on Aziraphale’s doorstep without the slightest bit of warning, crossing the threshold and neglecting to collect a spoken invitation, and lounging atop counter and sill until it suited him to leave.

He laughed softly.

His knack for convincing a lock to disregard its primary purpose was hardly a skill that faded with the passage of time, and there were always new locks being constructed, new variations and ways to foil--

The door swung open with a melodious creak and a pair of bright, bespectacled eyes stared out at him with a streak of irritation that quickly passed into what was certainly relief. “Crowley?”

It was an identical scene to the one that Crowley had imagined, and of course, why would it be otherwise?

He grinned despite himself. “Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale seemed to hesitate, gazing with interest to the puddle-streaked pavement before smiling and at last meeting Crowley’s eye. “Ah, what a nice surprise it is to see you, my dear. I hadn’t expected... my word, but it is coming down rather remorselessly.”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I noticed.”

“Tell me, is your telephone out of sorts? I repeatedly tried to... er, I trust that you’ve been well?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed and he hastened to add, “Do come in,” taking a hurried step back as Crowley continued unchecked through the doorway.

“Ah.” Crowley hazarded a glance to his boots, lifting a foot lightly from the floor, and scowled as he saw that the once impeccably soft leather was now scuffed and soaked with rain. Such discomforts hardly seemed worthwhile for any occasion, though then again, he had tracked some rather offensive splotches of mud over the angel’s beige carpeting, and to be true, one must always take some interest in relishing the simple pleasures of life. Chuckling softly, he dried his clothes with a thought and continued, “When you didn’t come to the door, I somehow wondered whether you had gone out.”

Aziraphale’s tongue darted across his lips, and he smiled again, though with less certainty. “Yes, quite.”

“You were... on a night like this?” Crowley snorted, his voice laced by a faint hiss. “I hadn’t--”

“Oh, I’m most _dreadfully_ sorry,” Aziraphale said lightly. “Is there something that I can help you with?”

“Pardon?” Crowley frowned, squaring his shoulders. “ _Help_ me? Why would I -- wait. What’s that smell?” He tilted his head, shifting the box against his hip as he moved towards the angel’s kitchenette, and sniffed the air. “Are you _baking_ something?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale leaped in front of him and spread his arms. “It’s only... er, cottage pie.”

“Ngk.” Crowley shuddered at the thought of such a grisly concoction of meat and pastry, wrinkling his nose. “You do realize that it’s currently burning, don’t you?”

“What? Nonsense! It’s just...” Aziraphale trailed off, grimacing. He seemed to pause with uncertainty as he stood by the oven door, his eyes guiltily held down and his brow furrowed as he opened it, at once releasing a billowing plume of dark, noxious smoke. Aziraphale coughed violently, waving a hand before his face, and resumed, “A bit crisp, which is really what one wants in any sort of pie.”

“I see,” Crowley said. He snapped his fingers and the smoke dissipated, though the stench of blackened crust remained, hanging upon the air with the potency of most every fragment of brimstone that he had ever encountered. Taking a step back, he heaved the box to his chest, letting its edge rest against the tabletop as he watched Aziraphale pull a cloth from the side-cupboard to swiftly rescue the pie from the oven. Crowley grinned. “I recommend against eating that, angel.”

Aziraphale stiffened. “Really, my dear,” he scoffed with an ineffective glance over his shoulder. “There’s obviously a bit of bad wiring at fault.”

“Of course.”

“I was merely perusing a few of my more subversive volumes of poetr-- _prophecy_ this evening, you see, and that was hardly more than an hour--” the angel broke off, glancing to the clock. “Well, hardly more than two hours.” His gaze fell to the floor. “Three at the absolute most.”

“I can’t say that I blame you,” Crowley conceded. “You’ve abysmal taste in pie.”

Aziraphale laughed shortly, opening his mouth to reply, though he shook his head and turned towards an overhead cabinet.

There was a quiet moment, marred only by the swinging tail of the wall clock and the hushed patter of rain against the window. Crowley watched as Aziraphale poured drinks, feeling offhandedly thrilled as he caught the angel’s gaze falling upon the box with curiosity, swiftly moving away, and settling there once more.

Crowley waited, savoring the moment as one does while tasting a fine wine or watching an enormous natural disaster take place from quite a long way away. He stared into his drink, emptying it with a jerk, and smiled slowly.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked at length, his brow creasing with a vaguely frustrated frown. “What’s all this, then?”

“This?” Crowley gestured and box’s sides fell silently away; he reverently moved his palm across the gleaming surface of the uncovered screen. “This is the future,” he said with a smooth, reassuring note of pride.

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale nodded. “I do believe that I saw a similar machine being tested at a technology exposition in July -- or was it April? No matter. There seemed to be some sort of mix-up regarding the frequencies, though I seem to remember hearing that some speech or other was broadcast at last.”

Crowley laughed incredulously. “You went to a technology exposition?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Whatever for?”

“There were advertisements regarding a demonstration of a new, fully-automated printing press, though to my great amusement, it barely surpassed the old Gutenberg model in speed and was _far_ worse in aesthetics.” Aziraphale chuckled lightly, sipping his drink. “There was, however, a very interesting young man handing out pseudo-egalitarian pamphlets by the toilets. The most remarkable eyes, really. He claimed to have read _Clarissa_ in its entirety, which I highly doubt, though he did invite me back to his flat to discuss it in greater detail. He was also apparently writing a philosophical treatise on Wordswor--”

“Ah, that’s absolutely fascinating. I’m sorry to have missed such a gripping moment in time.” Crowley smiled wickedly, tapping his hand against the box as he brought their conversation onto an even track once more. He pushed the machine against the wall, kneeling to plug it in and coughing with the dust that stirred with his movement. Notably, Aziraphale’s wall socket was already quite filled to capacity by various plugs and wires, though Crowley reasoned that one more would hardly make a difference. The angel always had been a champion of safety. Crowley smiled, standing, and rubbed his hands together. “This is an entirely different machine, you can be sure. I call it television.”

“Television?” Aziraphale laughed shortly. “Rather gauche, don’t you think?”

Not without irritation, Crowley tapped his fingertips against the top of the set. “It was chosen by committee.”

“Indeed?” Aziraphale arched a brow. “Ah, but now that I think of it, I do believe that that was also the name they gave it... is there a problem?”

“Certainly not.” Crowley’s heart pounded with a mixture of dread and anticipation as he turned the knob, slowly clicking it into position, and stood perfectly still as he waited for the screen to flicker to life.

The wall-clock ticked, one second, two, and then the room was thrown into a blue-grey haze, alien and ill-conceived against the placid fortitude that lined the walls in shelves of books. A series of figures ghosted across the screen, black and silver with their motion, followed by flashes of grinning faces and shuffling feet. There were mobile tuxedos and billowing gowns, trumpets and stars.

It was a dancing contest.

Crowley grimaced.

“I say,” Aziraphale began, moving towards the television. “Haven’t I seen that chap somewhere before? He does look rather familiar.”

“Does he?” Crowley replied lightly, suppressing a yelp. Shifting his arms, he attempted to block the angel’s view and fumbled for the knob. “Oh, but the screen is smudged. You couldn’t possibly...” he trailed off as the scent of ozone filled the air. “It was merely--”

The lights flickered and went out.

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale said, “but I _knew_ that the wiring was off.”

“Of course.” Ignoring the darkness with a focused disdain, Crowley scrabbled with the switches and plugs, his fingertips burning lightly as sparks danced from the socket. He swore heavily under his breath.

Aziraphale cleared his throat with hasty reproach. “My dear, would you like for me to...”

“Oh, no,” Crowley replied, feeling Aziraphale’s grip settle against his arm as a pale blue glow filled the room. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he met the angel’s eye and the light dissipated.

The television flashed on once more, this time featuring an animated dog pummeling over haphazard ski-jumps and shoots.

Crowley stood, folding his hands together. “See?”

“Why, yes.” Aziraphale nodded, bemused. “It rather reminds me of a story by Verne.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, realizing with distaste that he was too accustomed to such peculiar remarks to be genuinely taken aback. “Would you like to know how it operates?”

“Oh, I imagine that it involves the dark arts,” Aziraphale laughed haughtily. “Really, my dear, you must realize that I haven’t the nerve for such forward things just now, nor the inclination.”

“You’re not even the least bit curious?”

“As you like,” Aziraphale sighed, touching his fingertips to his temple. He smiled cheerily. “Well, do go on, then. How does yours work, exactly?”

“Oh, but it’s really rather complicated,” Crowley said pensively, circling his hand through the air before him. He narrowed his eyes. “It’s something to do with circuitry, I believe, and excited electrons.”

“Excited electrons?”

“Yes. With tiny beams of light... silver threads of quantum--”

“Leaping behind the glass?”

“Behind the... oh, yes, that’s right. It creates a moving picture, as you can see, though just yet it’s a bit more muddled than one would like.”

“I see.” Aziraphale shrugged affably. “The machine that I was lately introduced to was an electronic system that caused the transmission of transient images of moving objects to be bound together with sound through space by an apparatus that converted both light and sound into a varying array of electrical waves and reconverted them into visible light rays and audible sound, thereby producing an image upon the screen.”

After a pause, Crowley said through gritted teeth, “Yes, naturally. That’s exactly the explanation that I was working towards.” He clenched his fists, taking a deep breath. “Shall I continue?”

Aziraphale smiled.

“As I was saying... before long, we should be able to market this model in a variety of colors and styles. Faux wood paneled or platinum finished, even.”

Aziraphale continued to eye it with distrust. “And I suppose they’ll be bought at the expense of one’s immortal sou--”

“Well, not exactly,” Crowley cut in, vaguely embarrassed. “Don’t think that we didn’t consider such a transaction, though.” He cleared his throat. “These machines _will_ certainly cost a small fortune, both out of pocket and general well-being, and most mortals will ultimately be unable to bear the humiliation of not owning one.”

“Ah.”

“We’ll require an ownership license and attach hidden fees to requests for special transmissions,” Crowley continued airily. “Reception will be grainy at best, and remarkably enough, these little boxes will be the cause of local power outages and frequent headaches, not to mention surging electricity bills.”

“It sounds perfectly scandalous.”

Crowley grinned. “I trust that you’ll understand the incentive after you’ve lived with it for a few years. It’s only a matter of time, really.”

“You don’t mean to leave this infernal contraption here, do you?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Crowley chuckled.

“And what if there’s an electrical mishap? I shan’t be held responsible for _another_ Great Fire, my dear.”

“As I recall, you _weren’t_ held responsible for that -- rather superfluous -- accident.”

With a sublime calm, Aziraphale folded his arms before him. “No thanks to you.”

“Let me point out that you didn’t bother to thank me at the time, either.” Crowley paused, arching a brow as he waited for the angel to respond. At length, he scowled, continuing, “You needn’t worry about that sort of thing.” He smiled slowly. “I’ve just now given your television my special touch.”

Aziraphale began to shake his head, methodically casting shadows across the walls. “That’s exactly what I’m on about. Do take it away.”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out what they’ll broadcast next?”

“You’re not aware of what’s on the schedule?”

“Of course I am.” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder encouragingly. “I -- my people -- have devised a system for it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, someone or other has apparently taken the liberty of researching its overall effectiveness.” Crowley gestured airily, searching for the proper words. He snapped his fingers. “We’ve aligned the maximum degree of addictive properties with the minimum degree of tangible value. Our test cases have made very little fuss about it, really [3].”

“I see.”

“Rest assured, angel, this will catch on with the general public faster than anyone can imagine.” Crowley grinned, continuing gravely, “It’ll be bigger than dinner theatre, bigger than penny dreadfuls, bigger than dining cars on steam trains, bigger than Jes--”

“Just how long do you think people will be fooled by such trivialities and parlor games?” Aziraphale moved forward, brushing Crowley’s hand from his shoulder.

“Oh.” Crowley paused, frowning as he watched Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, and poured himself another drink. “As long as it takes, naturally,” he finished facetiously, his voice softly agitated.

“Well, I daresay it may very well revolutionize all manner of communications--”

“--delinquencies--”

“--earthly and otherwise, though I’ll not be swayed.”

Crowley considered his words for a moment, his lips lightly parted. Well, he thought, here goes nothing. He smiled. “There’s some talk of a program dedicated entirely to books.”

“Oh, well, I...” Aziraphale busied himself by smoothing his trousers, his brow creasing as he took a seat on the settee. His gaze was held low with the greatest care, paused in thought, and then suddenly rose up. “Entirely to books?”

Crowley’s smile grew as he lowered himself next to Aziraphale, meeting his eye. “Yes. We should have little trouble scheduling weekly docudramas, as well,” he continued, hoping to smooth over the angel’s revulsion [4] with a slow nod. “Theatrics constructed with the purpose of appearing as life-like as possible, only to be dashed by an infuriatingly dour musical score. Actors will stare straight into the camera for the sake of candid confessions and heartbreaking, treacle-laced rhetorical nattering.”

“Ghastly,” Aziraphale said, shuddering visibly. “What else?”

“Midnight infomercials that last until dawn, long hours of men howling and hawking, concocting new ways to sell knives and poorly-made vacuum cleaners,” Cowley drawled, settling his arm along the back of the settee. He smiled slowly. “Inside views of the animal kingdom narrated by French philosophers, amateur botany lessons for budding naturalists, and unceasing figure skating competitions.”

“Figure skating? That does seem to be a bit, er, irrespons--”

“Just think of it, angel. The possibilities are infinite. In fact, I...” he trailed off, suddenly struck by a fresh surge of inspiration. A grin flashed across his face. It was almost too easy. “What would you say to the news in Welsh?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Now, really, my dear. Don’t let’s get carried away.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley laughed lightly, at once sensing by the curve of the Aziraphale’s smile that his protests were purely ceremonial, thrown into the air with the ease of one who had spent several millennia practicing such things. Caught in the silver light of a televised sun, the angel’s face seemed to glow with satisfaction and knowledge, and Crowley was reminded of a place that had long ago retreated from his horizon. There were months to catch up on. He shifted against the worn cushions, allowing his arm to fall about Aziraphale’s shoulders, and at length leaned forward to whisper, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

\------------------

[1] It began, in fact, with a drunken debate regarding England’s finest Prime Minister. While Aziraphale insisted that it was Lord Palmerston, Crowley vehemently argued on the side of Pitt the Elder [1.5].

[1.5] Crowley was unable to reconcile this with the fact that he had woken up in Aziraphale’s bed with his arms twined about the other’s waist.

[2] A low-clearance mail room.

[3] Out of seven “test cases,” which included two men, two women, two children, and a mid-weight terrier, four perished, two were sent to hospital with acute radiation sickness, and one was overcome by the desire to participate in a televised quiz show.

[4] This apparent disdain was, in fact, only partially genuine. Aziraphale rather fancied the idea of weekly docudramas, along with various programming that provided instructions on how to paint sunny English landscapes, the perks of proper freshwater aquarium maintenance, and recaps of vaudeville revues, not to mention Sunday afternoon features on the fine technique of baking cottage pies.


End file.
